


partyboy

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, One-sided hate sex, Power Imbalance, Pre-Game(s), Terrible People Being Terrible Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: If you want something done right, you've got to fuck it yourself





	

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to [AK](http://nihilnovisubsole.tumblr.com/), [Umi](http://umicormhorm.tumblr.com/), [Level](http://ironthoughts.tumblr.com/), and [Appleheart](http://rottenappleheart.tumblr.com), who not only read this for me when I was freaking out over it, but also offered excellent advice on how to make it better. Summary is courtesy of Appleheart, because I couldn’t _not_ use it.
> 
> Please heed the tags, folks. Kirin Jindosh and Luca Abele are not nice people, and they do not do nice things.
> 
> 1/7/17 - this story now comes with _amazing_ (and very NSFW) [fanart](http://d2rt.tumblr.com/post/155394276442/based-off-of-partyboy-by-pathopharmacology-which), because I am a lucky, lucky person

Kirin’s in the kitchen when the duke finally finds him, perusing the fruit and cheese plates and indulging in the occasional grape. He’s not overly fond of sweets at the best of times, but the produce on display tonight is leagues better than anything he could obtain and he’s not above succumbing to temptation once in a great while. Power, it seems, has its privileges.

Speaking of which…

Duke Luca Abele comes swaggering into the kitchen on a cloud of tobacco smoke and sweat and other things better left unmentioned. His shirt is rumpled, untucked on one side. His hair is a wreck. His cheeks are flushed ruddy, no doubt with alcohol and high spirits of an entirely different sort, and someone’s left a smear of lip paint on the left side of his collar. He looks, in short, like a completely debauched mess, and there isn’t a single person at this party who would dare to say it to his face.

(Kirin is, of course, self-aware enough to include himself in this general condemnation. His memories of that suffocating little jail cell are only just beginning to lose their edge, and the duke is a…temperamental man. Whatever he gives is just as easily taken away.)

Abele brightens the moment he catches sight of Kirin. “Jindosh!” he bellows. “I thought I might find you in here!”

Kirin’s lip curls, and he barely restrains himself from allowing the expression to bloom into a full-fledged sneer. Luca Abele has his positive qualities, but _restraint_ and _volume control_ are not among them. Kirin turns away to select another grape and follows it with a cube of pungent white cheese, which turns out to be an excellent decision. “I wasn’t aware I’d been missed.”

“Of course you were missed.” Abele talks like he’s trying to bite off the ends of his words before they can escape, as though at any given moment he’s a mere hairsbreadth away from lunging forward and sinking his teeth into the other speaker’s throat. Kirin finds it fascinating, albeit entirely in spite of himself. 

(The duke’s smiles always contain far too many teeth.)

“Every time I hold one of these little soirées,” Abele is saying, “people are always asking me, _where_ is that Kirin Jindosh they’ve heard so much about? _Where_ is my pet genius? _Why_ is he hiding away like a sixteen-year-old virgin on her wedding night?”

Abele comes to a stop just a few feet away, hip cocked against a counter piled high with spiced meats and an elaborate centerpiece made of roast duck. His smile remains, but the mirth is entirely gone from his eyes. Those, Kirin notes uneasily, are far sharper than they have any right to be considering the man’s overall inebriation. 

“Well?” Abele says. “What shall I tell my guests about the _great Kirin Jindosh_ , hm?”

Oh, honestly.

“I sincerely doubt any of your guests are sparing a single solitary thought for me right now,” Kirin says dryly, and helps himself to another cube of cheese. It is, upon reflection, tastier without the grapes. “In fact, you’ve provided them with a veritable cornucopia of reasons to be thinking about anything other than me.”

“ _I’m_ thinking about it,” Abele says, in a tone that says if he’s thinking about it, everyone else damn well better be thinking about it too. “Three different parties, three different times I’ve found you lurking in the kitchen, Jindosh. Why the fuck do you even come if you’re going to squirrel away and make eyes at grapes all evening?”

His confusion sounds real enough, as does the vague hurt filtering into his voice. Kirin, however, isn’t fool enough to think it has anything to do with genuine warmth on Abele’s part; insult seems a far likelier candidate. Kirin sighs, considers his response, and finally settles on, “I come because you tell me to.” 

He’s honestly, genuinely _disgusted_ when Abele’s confusion only deepens. The man may not be as smart as his father by a long shot -- certainly he doesn’t hold a lamp to Kirin’s intellect -- but there’s no possible way he could be _that_ imbecilic.

“What,” Abele says, “d’you think I’d have you _killed_ if you refused an invitation?”

“You’ve done worse for less,” Kirin points out. “And no, I don’t think you’d have me killed, but you’ve made it _distinctly_ clear my current solvency depends not only on my continued creation of the various diversions you find so engaging, but also upon the fulfillment of certain…shall we say, _social_ obligations.” He sniffs, irritated even this much explanation is necessary. “So here I am. Fulfilling my social obligations.”

The duke’s expression is beginning to look less confused and more like Kirin is a particularly fascinating insect that just crawled out from under his pillow, and he’s not sure whether he wants to crush it dead or trap it in a jar for further study. “So this all comes down to…funding,” he says slowly. “There are at least fifty people here in various states of undress, all helping themselves to a staggering array of chemical delights and generally enjoying themselves a great deal, and you’re…barricaded in the kitchen. Because the only reason you’re here. Is you’re afraid I’ll cut your _funding_.”

“I hardly think a closed door constitutes a barricade,” Kirin says waspishly, and takes a startled step back when Abele advances on him. This close, the duke smells less like tobacco smoke and more like alcohol-drenched sex, and Kirin’s beginning to regret indulging in all that fruit earlier. Sugar has never been particularly kind to his constitution. 

“So,” Abele says. His eyes are gleaming, reptilian in their intensity. Kirin thinks again about teeth digging into soft flesh, of arterial spray and red, raw wounds. “You’re here because I ordered it. What…else might you do on my orders? If I told you to?”

Perversely, Kirin finds himself disappointed. The duke isn’t exactly known for his creativity, but for some reason Kirin still expected more of him. This sordid little avenue Abele’s decided to barrel down, it’s _banal_. Predictable. Utterly lacking in imagination. If their situations were reversed, he’d already have a good fifteen options in mind, with none of them so base as, “go fuck someone you don’t want because I told you to.”

Then again, if their situations were reversed, there wouldn’t be an orgy going on in the first place. So there’s that.

“I trust using my hands will be sufficient, then?” Kirin says coolly, and feels a mean little stab of satisfaction when Abele looks taken aback. “With the number of people involved tonight I certainly don’t plan to use my mouth--” He stifles a shudder. _Ugh_. “--and since few men respond well to the idea of fornication under duress, I’m afraid I’m otherwise out of options.” 

For a long moment, he truly thinks Abele’s going to strangle him. The man’s face darkens, the big muscles of his forearms bunching as his shoulders go tense. He takes one step forward, then another, and Kirin edges backward at the same time, as if they’re partners in a very strange and dangerous dance instead of…instead of whatever it is they are. It’s not until his lower back hits the edge of the sink behind him that he realizes how effectively Abele’s cornered him, and for a brief moment his surge of irritation is directed entirely inward. His hands find the lip of the sink, his ceramic thumb scraping against the metal before he readjusts his grip.

 _Stupid_ , to dismiss Abele’s more dangerous tendencies just because he’s drunk. Abele’s a creature of brute force and instinct. He’s drawn to blood in the water with the unerring precision of a shark, and his expression says he's already circling.

“Kirin Jindosh,” Abele says softly. “Whatever am I going to do with you.”

It’s not voiced as a question, but out of sheer pettiness Kirin decides to treat it as one. “Go back to your party,” he says. “You have _plenty_ of other things you could be doing. I imagine they’re draped over the furniture at this very moment, drunk out of their minds and wondering where you went.”

Unnervingly, Abele’s only response is a low, throaty chuckle. His breath is sour with alcohol.

“I’m perfectly happy in here,” Kirin insists. He’s beginning to feel deeply uncomfortable with the way Abele’s looking at him, and the smell of the man is _overpowering_. Hardening his voice takes far more effort than it should. “Honestly. I’m fine.”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Kirin.” Oh, so it’s _Kirin_ now. Because they’re such _good friends_. “Why would I extend my hand in invitation if I didn’t want you here? If I didn’t want you to partake of what I have to offer?” 

Abele knocks Kirin’s knees apart with his own, and suddenly Kirin’s heart is doing its best to hammer itself free from his chest.

He’d known, of course, it might come to this one day. The duke takes entirely too much delight in the manufacture of his own legend for every salacious detail to be true, but Kirin has no doubt a core of discomfiting truth lies at the heart of each sordid little story. He supposes it was entirely too much to hope for that he'd be spared this particular indignity himself.

“You invite me because you want to show me off,” he says bluntly. He tells himself it’s anger and not fear that’s causing his voice to shake, and it’s certainly not…well. He sucks in a breath as Abele’s hands go to his trouser fastenings. Abele is far too deft for someone who’s doubtless had as much to drink as he has. It doesn’t take long before he’s slipped inside and taken Kirin in hand. 

“Maybe I want you to _enjoy_ yourself,” Abele says.

Kirin seethes. The only remotely enjoyable aspect of their current situation is that his body has stubbornly refused to respond, and sheer spite hones his next words to razor sharpness. “If you had any interest in my enjoyment whatsoever, you wouldn’t be fumbling around in my pants like a sad little boy who doesn’t know what his own _cock_ is for.” 

This, unfortunately, does not have the intended effect.

“I don’t see why I can’t want both,” Abele says, reasonable and _infuriating_. Kneading, kneading, as though the stubbornly soft flesh doesn’t constitute an insult of the gravest sort. His breath is hot and shivery against Kirin’s ear, his erection a searing brand pressed into his clothed hip. “Show you off, see you enjoy it. You think I don’t want to watch you lose yourself between some pretty girl’s thighs, hm? Watch you bend some mouthy noble over a table and fuck him until he can’t see straight?”

“I have no interest in any of those things,” Kirin says, “nor any interest in _this_ \--” but Abele just keeps talking, like he’s not listening to Kirin at all. 

It’s entirely probable he isn’t.

“You think I don’t want people to know the sheer intellectual power you represent? That you’re here at _my_ disposal?” His voice deepens to a growl. “Everyone knows who you are, Kirin Jindosh. Academic rebel, enigmatic genius, _prodigy_. If you only knew the amount of ink wasted on you, Kirin, people begging me for _just one glimpse_ of whatever clockwork marvel you’ve cooked up--”

Kirin shudders, closing his eyes. There’s an unwelcome heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, at the base of his spine, in his groin. His penis, the _traitor_ , twitches in the warm vise of Abele’s grip and, damningly, begins to swell. 

Abele notices. Of course he notices.

“I should’ve guessed,” Abele says. His laugh is low and mean. “Of course the way to your cock is through your ego. Would you like me to tell you how indispensable you are? How brilliant?” His strokes slow, his grip firmer and more purposeful. “Perhaps you’d like to hear how every other person at this party pales in comparison to you. Little better than rats, the way they scurry about--”

“That’s not necessary.” He’s willing steel into his words, but his voice seems to be failing him just as badly as everything else and it splinters into a gasp. “I already-- _nnn_ \--I already know I’m--” 

A jolt of slick, startling pleasure. Again. _Again_. Kirin grits his teeth against the sounds threatening to burst from his throat and only half manages; the guttural whine that claws free is enough to make his stomach fold over itself in mortification. He scrabbles at the smooth edges of the sink, trying to find some sort of purchase before his knees threaten to buckle. Now that Abele’s found a weakness in his mortar he’s attacking it with everything he’s worth, and Kirin _hates_ it. Hates that this useless scrap of flesh between his legs is undoing him so completely, hates that it feels _good_ , hates that he can feel the slow, inexorable crumbling of his own control.

“Outsider’s crooked cock,” Abele breathes. “Just look at you. Just _feel_ that.” He rubs at the slick head of Kirin’s penis with the heel of his palm until Kirin’s arching into him. “If you were a woman, your cunt would be dripping.”

Even through the growing haze of pleasure, this still rankles. “Let’s not fool ourselves, _Luca_ ,” Kirin spits. “If I were a woman, you’d already have me bent over this sink whether I was wet for you or not.”

To his utter shock, Abele recoils like he’s been slapped. The fury in his expression isn’t particularly hard to read, but the emotion burning just beneath it is. 

“The things you’ve done,” Abele says in a quiet, dangerous voice, “anyone else would’ve thrown you in a cell so deep the sun would be little more than a fever dream. A half-remembered song your mother sang when you were young. But did I? No. I gave you a _job_. A title. Prestige, and money, and test subjects, and--”

“And in exchange you get to fuck me? Is that how this works?”

“I give you _everything_ you ask for!” Abele bellows. His entire face is red now, his nostrils flared. A vein throbs dangerously in his forehead. He looks about three seconds away from murdering Kirin with his bare hands. “Everything you want!”

Kirin sneers. “And now you take what you want.”

“What I _want_ \--” Abele visibly reins himself in, which…is no mean feat, not that Kirin would ever admit this out loud. When Abele speaks again, his voice is far more quiet -- similar, Kirin can’t help but think, to the way you’d soothe a cornered animal, calming it just long enough to get in close and wring its neck. 

“What I want,” Abele says, “is to understand what’s going on in that twisted little machine you call a brain. You say you have no interest in pleasures of the flesh, but _that_ \--” His gaze drops to where Kirin’s erection has flagged considerably but is by no means dormant. “--tells me otherwise.”

“Don’t make it more than it is,” Kirin says, his voice cool. “A biological reaction to a physical stimulus, it’s--”

Abele is already shaking his head. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Ohhh, no. No, no, no. I may not be as brilliant as the great Kirin Jindosh, but I’m not stupid either. What gets _you_ going is knowing how much better you are than everybody else. Isn’t that right?”

Kirin sniffs. “Do us both a favor and stop pretending this is about me,” he says. “This was never about me, or about what I want, or--”

“That, my dear Kirin,” Abele says, “is where you’re wrong. This has always been _entirely_ about…you.”

And he goes to his knees.

For all that he’s more intelligent than literally every other person on this island, it still takes Kirin an embarrassingly long time to process what’s happening. By the time it truly sinks in, Abele’s hands are already on him again, big deft fingers stroking him into semi-hardness far more quickly than Kirin thinks is warranted. The sight of Abele -- no, he’s not just Abele right now, he’s _Duke_ Abele, second only to the Empress herself -- kneeling at his feet is surprisingly effective.

After all, if there was any sense of justice in the world, people like _Kirin_ would be in charge. It wouldn’t be about inheriting a title, or possessing a larger army, or buying all the right politicians. It would be about intelligence, and strategy. Brainless thugs like Luca Abele _deserve_ to be on their knees and--

“I suppose even the most unpredictable men have their tells,” Abele says smugly. “Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.” 

For a moment the urge to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off his big, red face is so overwhelming Kirin can’t breathe. This vanishes, along with the rest of his anger, into the aether at the shockingly wet press of Abele’s tongue against his frenulum.

“Don’t talk,” Kirin rasps. Fingers white-knuckled at the edge of the sink, breath in tatters. He wonders, a little frantically, what Abele would do if he snarled a hand in all that thick black hair, yanked Abele’s head back, and fucked into that smug, lying, self-satisfied mouth until he _choked_.

His skin crawls at the knowing glitter in Abele’s eyes. “Oh?” Abele says. “You’re trying to pretend I’m someone else?”

The sound Kirin makes could only charitably be called a laugh. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And even if it was…he doesn’t think he’d want to. The degree to which his desire has already been laid bare is unsettling enough; Abele holds his gaze as he takes Kirin into his mouth, and continues to hold it even as Kirin struggles to keep his hips still. 

“I just.” Kirin wrests one hand from the sink and buries it in Abele’s hair, clenches a fistful, shudders all over when Abele’s response is to groan and take him deeper. “I just…”

Kirin’s mouth is the Dust District. His heart is the heavy thump of wind machine blades. His stomach is a tight, searing coil of electric _want_ , and Abele’s expression is the hungriest thing he’s ever seen, a knowing, _burning_ stare that flays him to the core. Fillets him, one raw red strip at a time, rends through skin and fat and bone until the fine sinews of his control finally snap one by one.

Abele chokes a muffled grunt at Kirin’s first ragged thrust, rallies somewhat at the second, and utters a long, drawn-out groan at the third. His big hands slide up Kirin’s thighs to grip his hipbones, hard and unyielding as iron, and Kirin almost snarls at the implied restraint until he realizes Abele isn’t holding him still, but rather urging him on. Swallowing him down, down, down, all wet heat and suction, brute force instead of finesse. Not even the triumph blazing in the other man’s expression is enough to tamp down the vicious, savage joy he feels at seeing Abele on his knees, his throat working, his mouth stretched red and wet around Kirin’s cock. 

_That’s where you belong_. Hips snapping, again, again, his breath coming sharp and stuttery and fast. Heat roiling frantically up his spine. _That’s where you belong, on your knees, in front of_ me--

Kirin comes silently, trembling, his fingers spasming where they’re snarled in Abele’s hair, before he sags back against the sink again. His penis slips free of Abele’s mouth, trailing spit and semen, and his shudder is half-pleasure, half-revulsion. He can _smell_ himself, salt-tang of sweat and the faint oyster brine of emission, and it’s so horribly distracting that he doesn’t notice Abele surging to his feet until it’s too late.

Abele’s mouth crushes his own, insistent tongue forcing past his lips. Kirin bites down in sheer reflex, and then Abele’s jerking away, a thin line of blood trickling down his chin. He wipes it off with the back of his hand and grins. There’s red in the cracks between his teeth.

“Now it’s my turn,” he says. His voice is a hoarse ruin of its former boisterousness, and there’s absolutely no reason for Kirin to feel an absurd little stab of pride at the sound of it. This lasts precisely as long as it takes for him to realize Abele’s undoing his own trousers. His movements are jerky with impatience, and Kirin’s triumph abruptly sours. Surely Abele doesn’t expect him to--

He lashes out when Abele grabs his shoulder and roughly whips him around, but the swing goes wide. By then, he has little recourse anyway, scrambling to brace himself before he ends up meeting the faucet face-first. Abele is a heavy weight against his back, chin hooked over his shoulder, nimble fingers burrowing beneath the edges of his vest to pop his suspenders free one by one. He’s terrifyingly solid. The deceptive veneer of fat does entirely too good a job of concealing the wall of thick muscle beneath, and the firm length pressed snug in the cleft of Kirin’s buttocks is likewise just as unnerving. He shoves back, trying to throw Abele off, and gets nothing but a stinging bite to the back of his neck for his trouble.

“Calm down,” Abele snaps.

“I will _not_ ,” Kirin snarls, before Abele yanks his trousers down to mid-thigh and anything else he was about to say is swallowed in a cold burst of unwelcome fear. The endless churning and buzzing and crackling of his thoughts goes abruptly and unsettlingly still.

_If I were a woman, you’d already have me bent over the sink whether I was wet for you or not._

Abele spitting into his hand. Softer, wetter sound of him slicking himself. A fat cock pressing between Kirin’s thighs. Kirin jerks, an animal sound of pure panic wrenching itself from his throat as he tries to force frozen muscles into action, nails, teeth, something _anything_ he can’t--

“Calm _down_ , Jindosh,” Abele says again. He snakes a thick arm around Kirin’s midsection and bends them forward, putting out his other hand to brace them against the sink when it quickly becomes clear Kirin’s not going to do a very good job of it. His hot breath dampens the fine cotton of Kirin’s collar, his forehead sweaty against Kirin’s nape. Frustration boils in his voice. “I’m not trying to bugger you, you little idiot, I’m just trying to-- _fuck_!” He bites the back of Kirin’s neck again, harder this time, until Kirin shivers and goes still. “Just keep your legs together.”

Kirin complies, his face burning, and only the arm around his abdomen keeps him from losing his balance at Abele’s first thrust. This isn’t…this isn’t how he expected this to go. Somehow, the drag of Abele’s cock between his thighs feels filthier than the actual act of intercourse. The blunt cockhead nudges his balls with every stroke, slicking his perineum with precome and spit. The sink creaks alarmingly with the pistoning of Abele’s hips, and Kirin hopes with every fiber of his being that no one’s noticed or remarked on the man’s absence yet. He doesn’t like _any_ of these people, but this is definitely not the first impression he wants to make: bent half over the sink with his prick hanging out, the Duke of Karnaca groaning obscenities in his ear and fucking him so hard the plumbing rattles.

At least Abele finishes quickly, although Kirin can’t help but think the amount of noise he makes when he does so is _entirely_ unnecessary.

Even worse: instead of pushing away at the earliest opportunity and allowing Kirin to get his clothing in order, Abele stays draped over his back, panting into his shoulder and making no move whatsoever to go anywhere. Kirin, increasingly aware of the semen trickling down the insides of his thighs, stares hard at the water spots on the tile wall just in front of him and silently counts to five before he says, “Get off me.”

Abele just laughs. He is, Kirin decides, one of the worst human beings he has ever met. “Already, Jindosh? Where’s your sense of romance?”

“We both know I don’t have one, and you don’t either. Get _off_.”

He seriously considers lunging for the knife on the counter when Abele does no such thing, but instead nips possessively at Kirin’s earlobe like the two of them are longtime lovers only now untangling from their tryst. Then Abele says, “Make me,” like he’s a spoiled _child_ , and that’s it, that is _it_ , Kirin is absolutely done with this nonsense.

Much to his annoyance, his fingers have barely closed over the handle of the little paring knife before Abele gets a hand around his wrist and twists the blade free. To his even greater annoyance, Abele doesn’t seem all that put out by the attempt. He looks, Kirin thinks irritably, almost amused by it, and maybe even a little proud. It’s entirely too depressing to contemplate. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Abele says. His earlier lability is entirely gone, replaced by a satisfaction so deep and cheerful Kirin thinks longingly of throttling him. Orgasm, it seems, makes the duke _gregarious_. “It was a noble effort. If you’d tried it with a butcher’s knife, you might’ve actually gotten somewhere.”

He snags a small hand towel from a nearby rack and swipes himself clean before tossing it in Kirin’s direction. Kirin grimaces. The thought of using the newly damp cloth is profoundly awful, but not quite as disgusting as pulling up his trousers before he’s wiped the duke off his skin. By the time Kirin’s mopped up and gotten his clothing into something approaching order, Abele’s already found himself a new bottle of whiskey and is wandering down the row of counters poking at the plates Kirin has already sampled.

“Is this any good?” Abele swigs from the bottle and prods dubiously at an elaborate cheese plate made to look like the Grand Palace in miniature. “Because it looks fucking hideous. I must’ve been drunk when I commissioned this one.”

Kirin stares, completely at a loss. He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected a post-coital Abele to be like, mostly because he’d never spared any thought to it at all, but if pressed he’d be forced to admit such expectations definitely didn’t include Abele meandering through his own kitchen and muttering to himself about cheese. He’d been hoping to make his escape when Abele excused himself to return to the orgy proper, but that plan is looking increasingly unlikely.

Finally, Kirin says, “It’s…fine, I suppose.”

“Really? It looks like shit.”

“That’s because you have absolutely _atrocious_ taste,” Kirin snaps, and the duke makes that disturbingly pleased expression again, the one that says Kirin’s delighted him in some odd and undefinable way. It’s unsettling, that’s what it is, even more so now that the insides of his thighs are chafed and oversensitive, and he still has the lingering taste of the duke’s blood and his own semen in his mouth. Before he can stop himself, he blurts, “What do you _want_ from me, Luca?” and instantly wishes he could cut out his own tongue when the vague pleasure in Abele’s expression sharpens into something almost predatory.

“When I think of it,” Abele says, “I’ll let you know.”

**Author's Note:**

> y'all can find me on [here](http://pathopharmacology.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
